I am now going to read a bit of Echo to get my brain into a nice reading mode, and then I am going to start Crispin: The Cross of Lead, and the beginning just has me hooked immediately. It is an historical fiction for young people:
ENGLAND, A.D. 1377
"In the midst of life comes death." How often did our village priest preach those words. Yet I have also heard that "in the midst of death comes life." If this be a riddle, so was my life.
The day after my mother died, the priest and I wrapped her body in a gray shroud and carried her to the village church. Our burden was not great. In life she had been a small woman with little strength. Death made her even less.
Her name had been Asta.
Since our cottage was at the village fringe, the priest and I bore her remains along the narrow, rutted road that led to the cementary. A steady, hissing rain had turned the ground to clinging mud. No birds sang. No bells tolled. The sun hid behind the dark and lowering clouds.
Doesn't that sound good???!!!